


Shallow Aspirations

by SapphyreLily



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, based on a song bc when do i not base things on songs, no angst can you believe it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-03 04:33:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10235987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphyreLily/pseuds/SapphyreLily
Summary: Dancing, circling, indulging in too much and caring much too little. But affection is a weed - it grows on you, unnoticed until it's too late, and you don't want to pull it out.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on Ed Sheeran's [Shape of You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_dK2tDK9grQ).
> 
> Happy (late) SemiShira day!

He’s cold and tired and exasperated, drained from a day at work, drained from dealing with too many people he doesn’t like, and even more who grate on his nerves and make him want to strangle them.

He flashes his ID at the bouncer and slips inside, bypassing the dance floor that he normally loves and tossing himself atop a stool, raising a finger to order his usual.

The longer he sits, the more people join him. Except now, these are people he knows; faces, acquaintances, almost friends – people he meets in this club, people whom he knows can help him relax and have a good time.

He’s on his – fourth? Fifth? – drink, talking too loud, and laughing even louder, when someone sidles up to him, squeezing between him and another to order a drink.

His eyes are drawn to the person – a young man, with oddly sheared bangs and a voice laced with quiet steel – and he drifts into silence, mind oddly quelled by the hidden strength he carries.

The man’s drink arrives, and he picks it up, turning to face him with a look like he knows he’s been staring.

He thinks he flushes, he’s not sure – he’s had too many drinks to feel any warmer – but raises an eyebrow, challenging him to say something, anything.

(Too many people have picked fights with him, but he knows how to defend himself, and if a young punk wants to try – well. He’d like to see how that would end.)

But the other only lifts his drink to his lips, sipping slowly, eyes never leaving his. And when he finally sets the drink down, his tongue traces his bottom lip slowly – too slowly to be really catching any stray drops, too deliberately to have any other meaning.

His lips are plush, stained slightly red by his drink, and he can’t help it – he swallows.

The other tilts his head in obvious triumph, eyelids sliding to half-mast, a dark look in his eyes and in the smirk twisting his lips.

He hates him.

He hates him, but oh gosh, he looks so _good._

He leans in, far enough that he hopes the other is uncomfortable, and asks for his name.

The man’s smirk grows a little wider and he moves, shifting just enough that they are eye to eye, a deep humour glinting in their depths.

“Dance with me, and I’ll tell you.”

He must be possessed, because he does.

He stands and lets him lead him to the overcrowded dance floor, wild music pounding in his head and his blood, feeling slim hands slide across his hips, thumbs hooking through belt loops.

He’s shorter than him.

It’s a belated realisation, a late observation, probably caused by his copious alcohol consumption. He opens his mouth to say something, only to have a finger set on his lips.

A shake of his head, a mischievous glint in his eye, the tiniest curl of his lips into a mocking grin.

He’s infuriating, but the lights lilting across his face and reflecting in his eyes heighten the emotion boiling under his skin, so he leans in, lips barely brushing his ear.

He has to shout to be heard, and that kills the mood a little, but he can hear him – the short laugh at his question, the whisper of hot breath over untouched cartilage.

And then he spins away, the shortest daring glance over his shoulder before he disappears into the crowd.

He shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t. This man is short and annoying, and plays games that are too suggestive, too teasing for his liking – but gosh, if he’s not enamoured by it all.

He chases him into the sea of bodies, pushing, shoving, until he catches a glimpse of copper-tinged hair and reaches out.

They turn and spin, and then his hands are beneath his jacket, resting on slim hips that fit perfectly in his palms.

He’s already tired, hot and irritated. He wants to pull away, wants to say _I quit_ , because what was the point of the chase? But the other’s eyes are dark and smouldering, his expression too pleased, and he can’t help but demand an answer.

Instead he gets a yank on his tie, dragging him down, breath fanning across his cheek and a whisper of _I like you. Yours or mine?_

\-----

Clashing teeth, ferocious tugs, lips blazing across skin. Hands are everywhere, touching, laving, worshipping the unmarked canvas, ready for him to take.

When he reaches his peak, he cries out. Stars paint vibrant streaks, colours splatter across his imagination, the shape of an idea, the body of inspiration opening up and pouring onto him.

He has fallen over the precipice, but the darkness is a wonderful, loving thing, rising up to welcome him.

\-----

He is gone the next day when he wakes, but there is still a dip in the mattress where he laid, and copper strands across the pillow.

He reaches a hand out – the bedsheets are cold.

But there is a lingering fragrance – camellia and fresh laundry – and he breathes it in, letting the flavours sit on his tongue, remembering the shape and mould of supple flesh under his hands.

He throws the covers off, rushing for his workshop.

A slab of clay is propped on the table, a dish of water beside him. He wets his palms, dipping his hands into the malleable coolness, pulling, shaping – pressing curves and angles and letting emotion flow from his hands.

The sun rises past the peak in the sky, and has begun its descent when he finally stops, inspiration exhausted, a masterpiece before him.

\-----

He walks by him, side by side, hands nearly brushing, fingers almost touching, sparks of static jumping between them at every accidental collision.

He almost wonders how he got here, but the soft steps beside him are a constant reminder that things can work out, sometimes.

_A slip of paper fluttering out from beneath his phone, a number printed in neat, almost calligraphic script._

_And beneath those numbers – a name._

They stop in front of a small café, and he holds the door open. His partner looks up from beneath a slanted fringe, the smallest smile lifting his lips, and thanks him, softly.

_A crisp voice, a measured tone. “This is Shirabu. How can I help you?”_

_He nibbles on his lip, throwing caution to the wind when he replies, “Hi. This is Semi.”_

They sit and order small dishes – too many to finish, but they chat and tease and joke, stealing bits off each other’s plates until the food is gone.

(They realise how incompatible they are – it’s almost comical, how much they oppose each other. But each word that falls from his lips sounds like it’s gilded in gold, glittering with saccharine sweetness, spiked with bitter undertones. He holds every syllable close, collecting them in a rapidly filling jar, wondering, wondering, how anyone could be so different, but still so similar at the core.)

(He never wants to stop hearing him speak, never wants to stop listening.)

(He is so far gone, it’s crazy.)

When they stand to leave, they brush against each other, fingers linking briefly, eyes meeting in a fleeting glance, unspoken feeling traversing the span of a second.

The sun is halfway down the horizon, but they walk and talk, neither ready to go home. They must walk about half the span of the city, but neither admits the soreness in his feet, neither highlights the dryness in his mouth from talking and laughing about everything under the sun.

_(Shirabu Kenjirou. Twenty-seven, works in a law firm, climbing the ranks quickly. Likes shirasu and yuzu juice, finds painting a bore but always carries a book with him.)_

They come to an intersection, cars flying past them, their occupants in a rush to get home, to get to their shift, to beat the crowd so they have more time to themselves. He trails off, watching the fading taillights, the faintest idea coagulating in his mind.

 _(From a family of artists, but broke away from them because he wanted to do something_ more. _)_

A tug on his hand, and suddenly there’s a taxi door open, his partner shooing him inside.

He doesn’t catch their destination, but it doesn’t matter when there are slim fingers intertwining with his, thumb brushing across his skin, and the secret of a promise between the press of their palms.

He sees the hidden smirk in the streetlights flashing across his features, and he wants to lean in, ask what’s so funny, and maybe bite the smugness out of his mouth.

(But more than anything, he wants to confirm if they have the same idea, the same train of thought.)

He doesn’t get to do anything, because it’s Shirabu who leans in, whispering into his ear, breath hot and words teasing.

He throws caution to the wind then, uncaring about the driver who can see them, shifting so that he can press their mouths together, teeth scraping and tugging.

In the background, he can hear the radio playing; he doesn’t recognise the song, but that’s okay.

He doesn’t need music when the all the melody he needs is coiled in the body beneath him.

\-----

He doesn’t think that they could keep on doing this – but it seems that they do.

Every other day they meet up, exchange a few words, but ultimately fall into bed, clothes shucked in some far corner, hands on unmapped skin – exploring, remarking, traversing a space where time seems to slow.

He doesn’t know what it really is between them – the obvious chemistry where they fit together perfectly, or the attraction-repulsion game that makes them like a pair of magnets. But what he does know is in the silence of the after – with bodies tired and blissed-out, hair sweaty and stuck to foreheads.

What he does know is the secrets swapped in the post-haze – quiet, vicious bitterness for their lot in life, dreamy contentment for the bubble of the moment, laughingly made wishes that will never come true.

Fingers walking up sides, tracing patterns into skin. The quiet curve of cupid’s-bow-lips, the glitter of eyes that have seen too much and want out.

The soft rise and fall of breath, hair and body backlit with the glow of streetlights, a tiny fire cupped in a palm, waiting for its time to blaze out of the darkness.

Sometimes, he leaves.

Sometimes, he leaves, and comes back with an easel and his paints. And in the darkness of his apartment, he throws colours across the canvas, recreating, reimagining, a life where they could be together for real.

He draws and he paints his muse, the one light in a seemingly endless night, until his eyes droop and he falls asleep, paintbrush clattering on the floor.

(And in the morning, he beholds his work, thinks about the other pieces hidden in his workshop, and wonders.)

(Does he perhaps, love him only for his body?)

\-----

He’s not the only one thinking the way he does.

They’re lying together yet again, half-asleep, Shirabu’s hand tracing nonsense patterns on his chest, millimetres from where his head lies.

And into the comfortable silence, he speaks.

_I think I love your body more than I do you. Is that weird?_

He gapes for a moment – _how did he steal those words from me –_ before he closes his mouth, taking back his answer, and ponders.

 _No,_ he says at last. _No, because I feel the same way._

His partner laughs, a tiny chuckle, a self-deprecating choke, a sound as familiar to him as the way brushes sound against canvas. _We must be idiots, then._

 _Maybe,_ he agrees. _Or maybe we just understand better than others that this is what we want._

_Are you sure?_

It’s a quiet question, lilting with traces of fear, spiced with a pinch of panic. The hand on his chest has stilled, and he glances down to see him staring back up at him.

 _Are you sure?_ He repeats. _Because– Because I feel that I might actually like you. Just a little._

He considers this, letting his head fall back against the pillow.

He thinks about their many escapades, their random lunch or dinner outings, the way they talk about everything and nothing, exchanging secrets that could ruin them if others knew.

He thinks about the perfect planes of his partner’s face, the way he is both monstrous and meek, and how he feels cradled in his arms, heartbeat thudding against his side.

He thinks about how he sees something in the middle of his day and wishes he could share it with him, only to realise that maybe, they’re not close enough for that.

He thinks about the many artworks hidden beneath a tarp in his studio, every single one inspired by him.

He is acutely aware of the stare boring into his jaw, and huffs out a laugh.

_You know, if you think you like me, then I must be obsessed._

He hears a surprised sound, but Shirabu is no longer meeting his eyes, face hidden against his side, hair like a curtain.

He doesn’t press him, because his face is burning from his confession, his admission of unknown depths of affection. He is ready to become one with the bed, if only to escape his mortification, but wishes don’t come true that way, and he remains as he is, pressed up against his lover.

It must be an eternity before the younger speaks again, voice uncertain, fingers drawing some sort of pattern in nervousness.

(Isn’t it odd, that he knows this? How his nervousness manifests?)

_Just how much do you like me?_

He doesn’t want to answer, because that would solidify it and make it true. But on the other hand, not answering means that he could lose him.

 _A lot,_ he admits, and stares at the water stains on his ceiling. _Go ahead and call me a sap. I wasn’t supposed to get attached._

 _No?_ The fingers on his skin are pressing, insistent, and he has to look, because it _hurts._ Then, _We must really be idiots, because I thought the same thing._

He stares and stares, until his partner gets fed up and pokes him, brows furrowed. _Answer me._

 _What is there to answer?_ He asks, and realises just then that they are true. What _does_ he have to answer for? 

_If you like me and I like you, then there’s only one way to go, isn’t it?_

_You make it sound like we’re dying_ , his lover comments drily, and gets a cuff to the head for his efforts.

He lets his hand fall to the side, contemplating the idea. _Would you go out with me?_

_You’re supposed to date before you have sex, isn’t it?_

Another cuff to the head, another poke to his side, and suddenly they are in an all-out war, fighting to land the most blows on each other.

He wins eventually, if only by virtue that he is taller and heavier, and as Shirabu lies pinned beneath him, he leans in until their lips almost touch.

_We’re not the conventional couple anyway. And who said we can’t do things backwards? Maybe we’ll last longer that way._

He raises a copper eyebrow, as if to question why they’d be together that long, but he leans the rest of the way in, sealing his lips so he can’t speak.

His lips are always plush, swollen, delectable and utterly delicious, and he can’t get enough – he’s not sure he’ll ever have enough.

But they do pull apart – eventually – only for him to be caught and pulled into his embrace.

 _Yes,_ is the whisper, the ghosting of breath over his ear.

_Yes, I will._

**Author's Note:**

> This has got to be one of my worse works I'm so sorry


End file.
